


Color Me Enamored

by peachpety



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 40 Year Old Drarry, Bathing/Washing, Bubble Bath, Color Changing Bubbles, Draco Wears a Tuxedo, Emotions Depicted as Color, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Smut, Sock Garters, Voyeurism, Whiskey and cigars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27209071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpety/pseuds/peachpety
Summary: Draco finds Harry soaking in a rainbow bubble bath and wants to engage in conversation. Harry just wants to unwind and think about his silver fox assistant, ok? Emotions run high and the bubbles can barely keep up.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 79
Kudos: 437
Collections: HP Suds Fest 2020





	Color Me Enamored

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MysticKitten42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysticKitten42/gifts).



> The moment - THE MOMENT - I saw this prompt I knew that I had to claim it! MysticKitten42, you lovely thing, thank you for prompting this gem. I've had so much fun with these pervy bubbles, y'all, and of course, with Drarry in them. Thank you to the mods, Tacky and Bella, for this wonderful fest! And as always, a huge thank you to my beta toluene, my dear, whatever would I do without you? BIG LOVE. Enjoy! xo peach

Harry sinks gingerly into the full bathtub, his sharp inhale echoing off the marble tiles. The water beneath the bubbles is scalding hot, hot enough to pink his skin and bead sweat on his upper lip. Hermione repeatedly admonishes him this luxury, warning that the excessive heat could cause dizziness, nausea or other troublesome afflictions.

But Harry welcomes the accelerated pulse throbbing at his temple and the sweat dripping from his scalp. It’s cleansing, cathartic. Plus, at this stage in his life — the upside of 40 and very nearly at mid-peak — his creaky muscles respond favorably, becoming malleable in the warmth. His rosy scars disappear into the flush of his skin, an absolution of the past, a clean slate for the present.

In the whiskey old fashioned hovering at the tub’s edge, a sphere of ice shifts in three fingers of Old Pulteney, and the Ashton Aged Maduro he lit earlier balances on the lip — his reward after this long day.

He had held the details of this soak in his mind as motivation while he suffered through weeks-long planning meetings, tuxedo fittings and speech editing that culminated in tonight’s Anniversary Gala celebrating 15 successful years of the Parkinson Orphanage. It was the only annual event he agreed to attend without protest, despite the inevitable gladhanding of crotchety Wizengamot members and the overzealous upper echelon of wizarding high society.

Harry leans back against the tub’s curve, hissing as hot water rises up to his neck, pricking his chest and stiffening his nipples. Fat bubbles in every color of the rainbow bob on the water’s surface and release a fruity, spicy scent that blends with the acrid leather and chocolate aroma of his cigar. He sighs and lets the bath leech away the stress clenching his shoulders. 

After all these years, he is still not comfortable at the parties and benefits that had become the norm in the post-war rebuilding. Harry didn’t begrudge folks their exuberance, but the heart-clenching anxiety of large crowds and suffocating but well-meaning sycophants affected him still. 

The kids, however, were worth it.

It had been Pansy Parkinson, of all people, who had drawn him out of his post-war funk. She had stormed 12 Grimmauld Place with a slew of orphans in tow and demanded his support. One look at the kids, and Harry was all in. He gave Pansy free rein and let her oversee everything, from remodeling 12 Grimmauld Place to setting the curriculum. Hermione signed on as Headmistress with a chubby 3-year-old Rose on her hip, and a year later the Parkinson Orphanage opened its doors. 

And Harry had thought he was in the free and clear to live a hermit’s life of leisure.

He had been sorely mistaken. 

It turned out the Savior of the Wizarding World could draw more fat wallets than honey draws flies. Fundraisers and galas abounded and required more finesse than Harry cared to muster. After countless conversational debacles and one particularly cringe-worthy event involving a Ministry official’s toupee and a glass of merlot, Pansy darkened Harry’s door once more. This time, with Draco Malfoy in tow. That had been 10 years ago. 

Harry takes a sip of whiskey with one hand and, beneath the bath water, settles his other hand on his groin, hooking his thumb around the root of his cock. His short curls, soft and pliable in the warm water, tickle his palm. 

Harry smiles.

One thing the years have afforded is knowing _exactly_ how he likes to be touched, how to tug delicate skin just so, how to squeeze just tight enough.

Whom he prefers to savor in his fantasy. 

Images of the evening float up as buoyant as the bubbles that begin to cascade from greens to blues to purples to pinks.

Malfoy, maneuvering Harry through the crowded room, dropping eloquent introductions and perfect placations, knowing the moment when Harry was about to revert to a bumbling mess and leading him away with a firm hand.

Malfoy, escaping to the balcony with Pansy for a clove cigarette, leaning on the railing, laughing smoke into the cool night air, loose-boned and carefree, unaware he’s being watched.

Malfoy, fit and lean in black wool and mohair, handing Harry a glass of champagne, the shine of his satin lapel glinting as he smirks and shakes his long silver fringe out of his wink.

Harry bucks his hips to push his cock, already half-hard, through his loose fist. The water sloshes in a slow, technicolor wave, and the bubbles pop and crackle. 

It’s not the first time he’s pleasured himself thinking of a certain prickly, opinionated git. The first time it happened, about this time last year, Harry could barely look Malfoy in the eye the next day. But now — he strokes the velvet patch of sensitive skin behind his bollocks — he has a plethora of scenarios, several of which include Malfoy in that fucking tuxedo.

Harry glides his palm up the underside of his cock, fully hard now, and releases it to undulate against his hip crease as he shifts to take another lazy sip of whiskey. The honey and cream top notes slide smooth over the back of his tongue. Peach-colored suds slide down his elbow as he tips the glass to his lips, and Harry decides that this is the color of contentment. He twirls his fingers and whips up the peachy bubbles, his magic buzzing and clicking.

The bubble bath he had poured into the running water employs a brilliant bit of magic that taps into the magical signature of the bather. The suds shift through an array of color broadcasting the current mood. Ron had repeatedly waved away the idea of a line of Weasley Wizard Wheezes bath products, blanching at the thought of “stewing in his own juices.” It was only after he found an ingenious charm, nearly complete and scribbled in Fred’s handwriting in a battered notebook, that he collaborated with Longbottom Apothecary and created the _In the Mood Bubble Bath_ product.

Harry raises a silent toast to Fred’s memory and takes a deep drag on his cigar. He wiggles his toes, now free from the confines of argyle socks and wing tips, and spreads his legs. The hot water swirls around his erection, and he sighs out a ring of smoke the exact asphalt color of Malfoy’s eyes.

A finger prod to the smoke morphs it into a dragon shape, the sinuous back curving as beautifully as Malfoy’s neck as he drank from the champagne bottle Harry had nicked from an awestruck bartender. Harry licks his lips at the memory of Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, a pointed peak Harry wants to scale with his lips. In the tub, the bubbles shift and neon pinks tiger stripe the peachy foam. 

The years haven’t softened Malfoy’s edges, but rather have honed his wit razor sharp. It’s a far cry from his cowed and sullen demeanor when he first agreed to be Harry’s assistant a decade ago. Harry hadn’t been too keen on the idea himself, but he knew no one more qualified to vet correspondence and navigate the quagmire of the idle rich better than Draco Malfoy. Harry now depends on him without question. 

And lately, Harry wants him without remorse.

He wasn’t sure exactly when or how it happened; these feelings seemed to afflict him gradually and all at once. He finds Malfoy’s humor so dry it makes his face ache from smiling. Malfoy’s mind, always working, sometimes spills out of him in a rambling stream of thought, made all the more fluid after a bottle of champagne. Harry doesn’t quite know what to think other than it’s endearing and sexy as fuck.

Harry sinks back into the water and frowns. The bath has cooled enough that it no longer bites his skin. He waves his hand to set the faucet running. Another hand twitch levitates the bubble bath bottle, and it tips and drops a dollop of pearly soap into the steaming stream. Tendrils of scalding water bloom around his calves and thighs and wash over his genitals like a hot breath. His cock twitches, and he presses his palm against it. 

As he undulates his hips, the cotton candy pink striping the bubbles bleeds and expands, completely snuffing out the peach. He gently rolls his bollocks, imagining his fingers twisting open the ebony studs of a crisp tuxedo shirt, exposing pale skin and rosy nipples. Harry moans and pulls his cock through his fist overhand. Soft skin drags and pulls, and the muscles in his groin loosen. The pink suds deepen to a raspberry hue shot through with bright magentas. 

A sound from the hallway captures Harry’s attention and he pauses, tilting his head toward the noise. A sharp snap shuts off the water. Footsteps immediately fill the silence. The berry-colored bubbles flash indigo at Harry’s alarm and then fade to the sky blue of relief when a voice calls his name in a distinctive drawl. 

Harry sinks down into the water, his stiff cock swaying in the current. The bubbles grazing his chin bloom a shameful, muddy yellow. 

The footsteps grow louder. Harry catches a flash of silver hair in the mirror as Draco strides past the partially-open bathroom door, nose tilted aloft, a man on a mission. 

“Potter!” Draco calls, a bite to his tone.

Harry sinks lower. Bubbles, now void any color, tickle his nose. Heels clack sharp and annoyed, retracing steps, growing louder. Words, garbled as if muttered through gritted teeth suddenly become clear. 

"...fucking swear to the Gods and Demons, if that scruffy, green-eyed, sexy scarhead has buggered off with—"

The bathroom door swings open fully, and Draco draws up short. He’s dressed in his tuxedo still — the living embodiment of Harry’s fantasy, the gorgeous bastard — but he’s in his shirtsleeves, jacket slung casually over his shoulder. The ends of his bow tie, hanging loose and uneven, frame the open collar of his shirt. 

His exposed clavicle leads the eye to the big grouping of narcissus flowers tattooed on the side of his neck, a tribute to his mother. The white pearlescent petals complement Draco’s complexion perfectly, and the yellow centers glow. That fucking tattoo makes Harry’s brain vibrate and his palms sweat. He often wonders what it would taste like on his tongue. The bubbles under Harry’s nose flicker pink. 

Draco surveys Harry in the tub, the crease between his brows deepening. “You buggered off before our debriefing,” he accuses.

Harry pushes himself upright. A small tsunami of amethyst water sloshes over the side of the tub. “I wanted to get away from Dame Wetherby and her daughter,” he says. Pale pink bubbles fade into an annoying chartreuse. 

Draco’s brow smooths. He turns toward the mirror and assesses his reflection. “You followed the script.” A statement rather than a question. He adjusts his hair, tugging stray strands into place.

Harry presses his lips together and scoops bubbles into tall peaks, the greens already turning a guilty yellow. He had tried to steer the conversation as instructed, he truly had. Muddy bubbles crackle and pop under the force of his sigh. “I complimented her daughter’s gown,” he murmurs. 

He can practically hear Draco’s eyes narrowing. The silence stretches.

 _“And?”_ Draco says, voice sharp.

“And now we are having tea on Wednesday.”

Draco groans and tilts his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Harry, for fuck’s sake.”

“She accosted me like a Thestral on raw meat!” Harry says, bristling. “She had that hungry look about the eyes and I felt like a deer in the headlights.” He shudders and sinks lower in repulsive puce bubbles. 

Draco tosses his jacket onto the hamper and plants his hands on his hips. “Well, thank Salazar the Dark Lord didn’t have in his arsenal a sly old witch in moth-eaten mink hellbent on marrying off her comely daughter or the war would have been lost.”

“Comely is a bit harsh. I thought she had pretty eyes,” Harry concedes. “Besides,” Harry’s ire flares and the bubbles redden, “it’s your own bloody fault! You left me alone with her!”

Draco folds his arms across his chest. “Yes, well, I was sealing the deal with Krum.”

“Oh, really?” This admission kills Harry’s waning erection completely. “You certainly were attentive to him tonight.” He pokes savagely at bubbles now the color of fresh grass. 

“He has _pretty eyes."_ Draco smirks and turns fully to face Harry. He leans his hip against the basin, inspecting his manicured nails. “He’s finally agreed to back the installation of the practice Quidditch pitch for the orphanage.”

Harry snorts. “What did that cost me?” Hopefully not a pointy, exasperating assistant.

“You’ll be matching his donation.” Draco turns back to the mirror. “And you’re doing a charity scrimmage with him next month.”

 _“Ugh,”_ Harry groans, sinking back into the tub.

“Think of the children. It shouldn’t be difficult. You’re practically one yourself.” The smirk in Draco’s tone is evident. “I might still have a toy boat from Teddy’s toddler days for your rainbow bubble bath.”

Harry rolls his eyes and catches a glimpse of his small stash of “toys” lined up on the tub’s edge. Embarrassment shunts down his spine and bleeds orange into the bubbles. Harry crooks his finger sharply, and the array of dildos and the acid green soap in the shape of an erect cock dive off the ledge into the water in a choreographed tumble worthy of an Olympic medal.

In the mirror, Draco’s eyes shift to him.

Harry plucks the levitating whiskey glass out of the air and takes a sip in his innocent lavender bubbles.

With a heavy sigh, Draco settles on the stool situated next to the tub and takes the cigar in hand. Harry tries not to think about how the towel he’d placed on the stool earlier might still be warm from Draco’s arse when he wraps it around his naked self later. The pinking bubbles display his failure.

Harry closes his eyes and rests his head back against the tiles. He employs a nifty little spell he devised that allows him a peek of the room while feigning sleep and covertly watches Draco work the cigar with his mouth, moist lips darkening the paper a chocolate brown. Warmth pools in Harry’s belly as he imagines those lips working _him_ over. The bubbles pink fully.

Draco releases a puff of smoke, gaze falling to a pile of clothing on the floor. Alarm pierces Harry’s calm and sapphire dots spot the pink bubbles. Harry tosses out a hasty vanishing spell that Draco blocks easily. He levitates Harry’s tuxedo off the floor tiles, and Harry groans. 

“Bloody _hell,_ Potter,” Draco drawls around the cigar clenched in his teeth, “this is a bespoke Prada-Zabini custom original and you’ve tossed it on the floor like a used condom.”

Harry blinks, taken aback. “What do you know of Muggle condoms?”

Draco leers. “Enough to know that Muggles prefer to be fucked while wearing one.” 

Harry frowns. Something hot and prickly growls deep in his chest. The bubbles roil cherry red, and ruby and scarlet. “Since when do you fuck Muggles?”

Draco lets the garment fall back to the floor. “Since when did you become such a prude?”

“I am not,” Harry huffs, wincing at the petulance in his voice. 

Draco laughs full out, and Harry splashes him. 

Water wets Draco’s hair and face. His shirt sticks to his skin and the edge of a pink nipple peeks barely visible through a translucent spot. Draco’s expression remains neutral but Harry catches the glint in his eyes the moment before he swishes his wand. Water rises up and douses Harry over the head. Sputtering, he lashes out and for several moments there’s a flurry of magic and water and canary yellow bubbles. 

“Stop!” Harry yells, laughing.

The water calms. Bubbles the color of lemon drops drip down Harry’s nose and cheek and into his grin. Draco sits drenched, the cigar a soggy mush in his mouth. Both nipples are visible now.

Draco takes the cigar and rolls it between his fingers, muttering an incantation. The leaves dry and the cigar reforms, and with hooded eyes he places the tip between his lips and sucks, hollowing out his cheeks, drawing fire back into the leaves. Harry watches, transfixed. Each pull of Draco’s mouth he can almost feel on his cock, now stirring again between his legs. 

Harry leans forward to fold his forearms on the tub’s edge, resting his chin, watching, wanting. Bubbles float like pink iceberg tips, breaching the water’s surface. 

“What is it with you and bubble baths anyway?” Draco asks. 

“Releases stress,” Harry says. He lets an arm dangle. His fingers snag on Draco’s shoelace.

Draco hums and closes his lips around the cigar, drawing smoke into his lungs. He tilts up his chin, exhaling, and prods the smoke with his finger. “So does an orgasm in the presence of a mermaid.”

The cloud transforms into the shape of a mermaid. She tosses her hair and waves at Harry. 

Draco hitches the corner of his mouth. “You weren’t the only one with access to the prefect’s bath,” he announces.

Harry imagines Draco hidden and watching as Harry pleasured himself in an enormous tub beneath a stained-glass mermaid. He wasn’t proud of it, but at the time how could his teenage self resist the slip of his hand in a forbidden bath. 

“You spied on me?” He wraps Draco’s shoelace around his finger, twisting it round the tip until it plumps like his cock and purples like the streaks in pink bubbles. 

“You should have joined me,” he adds. 

Draco’s eyes darken, and he sucks on the cigar. 

Harry holds his gaze and pulls the end of the shoelace. The lace slides smooth, the knot unraveling — a loosening of tension, an opening to grace.

Draco allows Harry to slip his sock-clad foot free from patent leather. Compact bones compress warmly in Harry’s hand, and he slides his fingers up the back of Draco’s calf, squeezing the muscle, his movements slow, controlled. Every shuffle and water ripples and fabric whispers. Every shift and bubbles crackle. 

His fingers catch on something cold, hard, and metallic. He frowns up at Draco and catches him with his head tilted, eyes roving Harry’s bare back down to the top of his arse barely emerged, where the water’s surface tickles the dip between his buttocks. Their eyes meet, and Draco lifts his brow.

Harry hikes up Draco’s trouser leg. Sock garters hug Draco’s calf. Metal clasps attach to the top of his socks, and a spare wand sits safe inside a holster. The bubbles strobe pink and magenta.

“Well, now,” Harry says, voice gruff, “isn’t that hot as fuck.”

Draco throws back his head and laughs. “Fuck, I can still hear old Moody. _Constant vigilance!”_ His gaze falls to a small scar on Harry’s neck, still puffy with tender newness. “He was right.”

Harry pops open the metal clasps and rolls off Draco’s sock. “Barely a nick.”

“A curse meant for me,” Draco says, eyes hardening. “It’s dangerous keeping me around you, Potter.” 

Harry admires Draco’s slender foot, the topography of his tendons mapping a path to slender toes capped with a light dusting of platinum hair. “Indeed it is,” he murmurs. He scratches his nails along Draco’s arch, and Draco’s toes curl. “You going to protect me, Malfoy?” He clasps Draco’s foot with both hands, pressing his thumbs into the big toe mound. “I like the idea of you protecting—"

“ _Fuck_ , I want you.”

The breath rushes out of Harry’s lungs, and his cock throbs. The bubbles swirl, a whirlpool of hot pinks and magentas.

 _“Brilliant,”_ Harry says, “I want you, too.” 

Draco points his foot, pressing his toes forward into Harry’s chest, pinning him back against the side of the tub. He grabs the wand from his holster and swiftly unbuttons his shirt. Harry reaches underwater for his cock, and Draco levels the wand at him. 

“Wait.”

Harry’s cock throbs again, and he breathes through the strain, pinned in place, arms aloft. _“Fuck,”_ he growls, bucking into the water.

Draco tosses the wand aside and unbuttons his trousers, lowering the zipper agonizingly slow, revealing black silk pants pulled taut over his erection. He slides his hand down his abdomen, over the trail of pale hair to disappear beneath the waistband of his pants. Harry writhes in the pink bath, cock almost painfully hard, riveted by Draco’s hand moving beneath black silk.

“Let me see,” Harry begs breathlessly.

Draco frees his cock, capturing his bottom lip in his teeth as he encircles the base with his fingers and drags his pants down beneath his bollocks. His cock is almost elegant in its erectness, rosy pink with a beautiful vein running along the length. A drop of pre-come wells out of the tip and slides down the head, now darkening to match the fuchsia bubbles.

Harry’s mouth waters. _“Oh god.”_ Merlot-colored suds undulate as Harry writhes beneath Draco’s foot.

Draco takes his cock in hand. Harry mutters a spell to slick Draco’s palm, and Draco groans, head lolling back, cock extruding another drop of pre-come. _“Fuck_ , your magic feels _incredible.”_

He circles his pelvis forward and around to push his cock through his fist. Harry watches his cockhead emerge on a forward roll and then disappear again and again like a piston, Draco’s thumb closing the gap on the down stroke and rubbing against the leaking slit when it peeks out. 

_“Draco,”_ Harry grits through his teeth. Draco levels his blissful gaze on Harry, mouth agape, lips moist, eyes hooded. His lifted knee drops a bit to the side as he fucks into his fist and Harry pushes his chest against Draco’s foot, grabbing his ankle, offering leverage. 

_“Harry.”_

Draco’s voice, pleading his name at the bottom of an exhale, is the only affirmation Harry needs. 

Harry plunges his hand beneath the water and wraps his fingers around his straining cock. He holds Draco’s gaze and rolls his hips to match Draco’s push-pull rhythm, whimpering with pleasure, words tumbling off his lips — _fuck_ , and _yes_ , and _Draco_. 

A gorgeous blush blossoms up Draco’s neck, and he climaxes suddenly, jerking erratically and spilling over his fingers. His throat works his Adam’s apple as he gulps air, the flower tattoo pulsing and undulating with his swallows.

It’s the most erotic thing Harry’s ever witnessed. 

Heat prickles Harry’s melting muscles and his magic expands, levitating the pink bubbles off the water’s surface. He thrusts into his fist and the moment he comes the bathwater evaporates in a cloud of steam and the bubbles explode, raining down on the bathroom like a pink ticker-tape parade. 

Harry blinks. He catches Draco’s eye and they both burst out laughing.

Harry rises up and grabs Draco by the front of the shirt. “C’mere,” he says and kisses Draco’s smiling mouth.

Draco tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair and returns the kiss in spades, swiping open Harry’s lips to taste his tongue. Harry’s heart wobbles in his chest, a bubble carried aloft on a warm breeze. 

They part for breath and Draco smirks, massaging Harry’s scalp. “We made quite a mess.”

Harry groans and leans into Draco’s hands. “I know how we can clean up.” He waves his hand to start the faucet running. A finger snap vanishes Draco’s clothing.

Draco lifts a brow at Harry’s toys littering the bottom of the tub. “It wouldn’t be a proper bath if we didn’t play with toys.” He pours bubble bath into the water stream. “Let’s re-pink those bubbles, shall we?”

Harry grins and hauls Draco into the tub.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me indulgently lurking on [tumblr](http://peachpety.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART: Bubbles, Scotch, & Cigars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28516065) by [anokaba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anokaba/pseuds/anokaba)
  * [[COVER ART] Color Me Enamored by peachpety](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29608809) by [PhenomenalAsterisk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhenomenalAsterisk/pseuds/PhenomenalAsterisk)




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